Wednesday, 8 January 2014

The Weight of a Book in My Hand

“There was something about the possession of a book that was
important to me. Owning it gave me proprietary rights on the story. It meant
that I could read as quickly or as slowly as I liked. No expectations, no
deadlines, no proscriptions on bent spines or crumpled pages. I was not gentle
on my books. I read while I ate, I read in the bathtub. At night, I rolled over
on top of my books that had fallen between the covers as I dozed. For me, the
worn pages and tattered covers were a sign of devotion. Like the Velveteen Rabbit,
the books I read were only real when they were loved. And I understood that
love was not always gentle.”Unbound
(All Good Things #1)

Back in the day when we lived in our one-bedroom apartment,
my books lived wherever I could find room for them - on shelves, on tables, in
book crates and baskets. When we moved into a bigger apartment, we bought more
bookshelves, but the books continued to dominate whatever decorating choices I
made. There were a lot of them. A bigger home meant more books, right?

And then we had a baby. Those with kids know how the STUFF
takes over. And I felt less sentimental about my books in the face of
overcrowding. I did the one thing that is usually really hard for a bibliophile
to do. I culled my book collection. I gave them to friends, dropped them off at
used bookstores, and when all else failed, recycled them (I know, don't judge
me). My books now live on one (ONE!) bookshelf in my office and a small
bookstand beside my bed. And unlike past attempts, the books have not multiplied
in the night under the cover of darkness (I used to swear I could hear them
canoodling after I went to bed, Asimov totally flirting with Austen, Dickens
drinking shots with King).

But I can't blame it all on the kiddo, what really changed
the game was my iPad. Now a good chunk of my book collection sits on electronic
shelves, which are a lot less pretty and don't smell like anything at all (my husband
looks at me strangely when I sniff the iPad). And I can't lend them, which
sucks, because I love handing a book to a friend. It's like I'm passing along one
of my really good memories.

And yet, I don’t resist the pace of progress. In fact, the iPad
with its Kindle and Kobo apps all neatly alphabetical, has won me over. "But, but, but," my
old die hard book-self would say (my die hard book-self sounds a lot like
Willow Rosenberg, FYI), "you can't touch them and the no smell thing and
you know, they're BOOKS." But the thing is Willow, ebooks are really
convenient. You can read them in the dark when you’re trying to lull your kiddo
into believing he’s tired, you can bring all ten of the books you plan to read
on your holiday without a luggage surcharge, and it's so bloody easy to buy one.
One click is like the best of times and the worst of times. And I’m reading more
than ever (maybe not more than middle school. Books saved me in grade eight).

What I'm trying to say is that, somewhat reluctantly, I’ve adapted, and it’s not so bad.
Falling asleep on top of my iPad is pretty uncomfortable and to be honest,
really cold, but so farI haven’t
dropped it in the bathtub and my book gift certificates go a lot farther. But now and then, I still pull out my first hard cover copies of the Lord
of the Rings or Pride and Prejudice and I hold them, and I smell them, and touch the crumpled pages and tea stains, and I reminiscence,
old-lady styles, about how good it feels to hold the weight of a book in my
hand.